


Skyrockets

by jat_sapphire



Series: I'll Be Home for Christmas [2]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: After "Please Have Snow and Mistletoe," Ray wants Bodie to know more about how Ray feels about him.I meant to post this on New Year's Day, and I'm sorry to be late.  I have got to stop writing stories containing long car trips.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: I'll Be Home for Christmas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2102805
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Skyrockets

The undercover job lasted almost the entire week between Christmas and New Year's. In Birmingham, Doyle rambled here and there, looking for IRA offshoot groups who wanted funding, pretended to connect them with American sympathisers, found out their plans and scuttled them. He felt like a professional pest-catcher, or maybe a terrier diving into a hole after a rat. He felt like a stray. Bodie was back in London. Murphy was coordinating the CI5 campaign. His beard was even more scraggly than Doyle's and his Irish accent even more like a music-hall turn. None of the IRA-ers seemed to notice, luckily, at least not until they were being rounded up by the coppers.

Doyle had taken to scratching his chin, he was so anxious to get rid of that ridiculous privet hedge on his face.

Now, he was driving down the motorway, on his way home, missing his electric razor as if it were his mate. Not Bodie--that was a deeper ache--but perhaps like Anson. The radio was still warbling the same holiday pop that it had been playing last week. The food he could get at transport cafes was greasy and lukewarm. Depressing. The traffic was erratic. Doyle tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and whistled Christmas songs through his teeth.

He kept thinking about his mother. The image of her sitting room as they had left it on Christmas Eve, the silver tree and fairy lights, popcorn and paper chains and baubles, hung before him like a slide projected on the inside of the windscreen, pierced by the red tail-lights of the cars ahead and the white headlights of the cars in the opposite lanes.

He remembered Bodie on the sofa at Christmas Eve. He remembered the Fizeek picture in 1961, the magazine model nearly nude and his loincloth bulging with the heavy cock Ray had imagined behind it. He'd imagined the short dark hair in his hands, the sweet, relaxed mouth under his own, the muscled planes of chin, chest, stomach, legs. He'd just been bringing himself off when his mother caught him.

Now he saw another transport cafe exit. The sun was going down, which made it only mid-afternoon, but he was fighting fatigue and hunger. Maybe they had decent fish and chips or a sarnie he could choke down. Tea or coffee. He exited the motorway.

The fish wasn't bad, and the chips were palatable with vinegar. The tea was stewed. The phone was in use, a youngster arguing with someone, pleading or whinging, to bird or mother, squirming anxiously as he stood.

Ray thought of Bodie and rubbed his prickly chin. He could do it, call Bodie. He could stop and get some takeaway when he reached London, shave at Bodie's and spend the evening ... watching the telly, playing Mastermind, talking about that day his mother saw him wanking to the Fizeek magazine, tore it up, and threw him out.

 _When I saw you, Bodie, when Cowley paired us up ... My knees wobbled. You looked so much like the model. I looked at your flies. You have the same kind of bulge. I bet you look just as sexy as that if you lie back in bed like that, stretch your arms up like that, let the sheet slip down. Or when I pull it off, slowly, watching your skin, and it gleaming ..._ Ray pulled on his beard, shook his head, reminding himself that he had a good hour ahead of him on the motorway and the last of his report still to write.

The R/T beeped. Ray picked it up, hit the switch, spoke into it. "Four-five."

"Three-seven," Bodie answered.

Ray took a deep breath.

"You gonna miss the skyrockets?" asked Bodie.

"At midnight? Hardly. You got a bird lined up?"

"Nah. Thought I'd drag you out."

"Too kind."

"That's me nature. How'd it go?"

"Not bad. Don't know how blokes stand beards, though."

"Itchy?"

"Torturous."

"Come 'round mine, shape the ends, I'll have a curry for y'."

"Ta, mate. About an hour." Ray heard the breath bounce off the R/T mike, and then Bodie flicked the switch off.

Unaccountably cheered, Ray used the only mildly revolting WC and went out to the car.

As a probationary constable, Ray had been stationed at one of the grandstands on Primrose Hill Road for New Year's Eve. Swarming with people, it was noisy, boisterous, and only part of the crowd had been friendly. A group of boys up at the very top of the grandstand jumped up and down until the whole structure threatened to collapse. As Ray threaded his way toward them, a few of the boys had jumped down to escape. One of them broke his leg. He had still been howling when he was lifted into the ambulance. 

Bodie was still on shipboard then. Not even to Africa. Or had he been? Would he answer if Ray asked?

Ray didn't really want to know. What he wanted to know was whether Bodie would undress for him, lie down and put his arms above his head, look back at Ray as Ray wanted to look at him.

He didn't dare say so.

Sighing at his own cowardice, Ray turned onto the motorway. Fewer cars were on it, sliding smoothly along. He increased his speed.

Bodie would go much faster. Ray couldn't quite persuade himself to go more than a few kilometers over the limit. 115 per hour, maybe as fast as 120. Bodie had pushed one of the Capris to 150 once. At least the road had been empty. He had laughed gleefully over at Ray, who had scowled but felt secretly pleased at Bodie's energy and delight.

He always had. He always would.

Years from now. He imagined Bodie leaning on a cane or sitting up in bed, hair streaked with frost but his eyebrows wagging, eyes bright with affection and mischief.

Bodie. Feeling swelled under his sternum and he spoke before he could stop himself. "Bodie."

Ray shook his head, hearing the yearning in his own voice. "Barking mad, me."

The road went on in the dark. A few drops or flakes fell, making tiny dots against the windscreen, catching the motorway lights.

What did he want, anyway? A night under those wide shoulders? Under the brush of those lashes like feather dusters, those eyes like lights sweeping, searchlights across a rolling sea? An awkward morning, making breakfast, slurping his tea, and mourning what would never be again? Trying to smile back at Bodie's sated grin? Again he pictured the pectoral stretched oblong, the cords of Bodie's neck as he strove for release, the sweat where neck met shoulder, and Ray rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tasted in imagination. Yes, he admitted, he'd pay the grief for the pleasure. He'd risk the pain. Tonight.

Ray knew he was a fool for love. Whenever he fell for someone, it filled him up, preoccupied him, pressed behind his eyes and ached right through him when he was not with the one he loved. He remembered counting the minutes in a shift, doing maths for commuting times, going where they had set to meet, sitting at a restaurant, leaning at a bar, hanging about at the entrance of a venue, searching the crowd, the queue, the benches in a park ... the place was empty until he saw the one he waited for. Like a flash of current through his nerves, like a Roman candle bursting through the top of her head and lighting up the sky.

When had he first felt that with Bodie? It seemed forever. Years. Not really, but long enough to know himself. 

Checking the motorway signs, Ray realised he was nearly to London. Bodie had been living in Pimlico for the past few months; it was not Ray's own favourite part of the city, but the flat itself was a good one, with tall sunny windows and a large bedroom with a long wall, big enough for two wardrobes.

Bodie could _fill_ two wardrobes, with his poncy suits and polo shirts. Dress shoes. Two tuxedos. Ties.

Doyle had reached the outskirts of London. Bodie would have ordered the takeaway by now.

Ray negotiated a roundabout, crossed the river, reached Pimlico. At Bodie's flat block, he saw Bodie's silver Capri and lights in his windows above. A nervous quiver settled in Ray's lower back and in his hands. He went to the outer door, which was not kept locked, and bounded up to the first floor. Leaned on the bell in the long blast they used for one another.

The wait seemed long. "Bodie?" No answer. Sounds of some movement came through the door.

Bodie was looking over his shoulder. Ray went in past him, looked back as he reached the sitting room, and inhaled sharply. Bodie had a purple bruise around his eye and his second and third fingers taped together and splinted. "What," Ray said, "What hap-" and heard his mother's voice: _What happened to your face?_ The guilt in her voice was like what he felt now, as his hand moved toward Bodie's cheek. He was gobsmacked.

"That grass of McCabe's, remember, Danny?" Bodie walked a bit stiffly back to the sofa and subsided into the cushions. "Wouldn't come in to HQ, wouldn't talk to me. Got stroppy."

"Where the hell was McCabe?" Ray snapped.

"With another grass. Cowley thought we could question twice the--" Ray raised a hand to stop Bodie's explanation.

"Bloody Cowley. Sets up partners to cover each other's backs 'n then sends me to bloody Birmingham while you're rousting grasses in the East End!"

"Now, now, Batman, not much harm done. Few days, this'll be good as new." Bodie waved his injured hand in the air, then dropped it beside his leg as Ray sat at the other end of the sofa, half turned toward Bodie with the sofa arm at his back.

"Bet it hurts like the devil, though," Ray grumbled, looking at Bodie's black eye and swollen face.

"Does that," Bodie admitted.

"Got paracetamol? Frozen peas? Want a cuppa?"

"What I _want,_ " groused Bodie, "is a good single malt, but I've had my painkiller and got my A&E instructions, so nothing but ice. I think I do have a bag of peas in the freezer, ta."

Ray went to look. There were no peas, but there was a bag of pearl onions, which would be good for icing his swelling even though it was a mystery what Bodie had originally intended to use them for. "Do you _eat_ onions?" Ray asked as he brought them out with a dishcloth to wrap tound them.

"Soup. Fry-ups," said Bodie, settling the towel-wrapped bag as he lay down.

This time Ray sat on the coffee table and watched Bodie fondly. He reached out again and patted Bodie's shoulder, and then cupped the air near Bodie's darkened skin where the heat rose from the bruise.

"Kip?" His voice fell low.

Bodie shivered slightly, like the skin on a horse's neck. Ray stood and reached for a shawl or Afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it over his mate. Bodie's lips curved. "Ta," he murmured, dropping off.

Ray thought he ought to go home and leave Bodie to his rest, but it was more than he could do to go home to his own lonely flat with no supper or even a shave. He had some clothes at Bodie's, and he knew where the shears and Bodie's shaving gear were.

Bodie's robe, and extra towels, were in the airing cupboard; Ray's jeans and t-shirt were in a bag in the bottom of the wardrobe; Ray attacked his white and brown facial broom with great pleasure. Once shaved, he took a nice hot shower. The takeaway bags were on the kitchen counter, so by the time Bodie roused, Ray felt much more like himself. He had a cuppa for himself and a mug waiting for Bodie. His takeaway container was keeping warm in the cooker, so Bodie took his next painkiller and had tea and Indian, stretching out his legs at the kitchen table and discussing the case that he and McCabe had been working on.

Of course, Ray was interested. Rousting grasses usually meant that Cowley had heard a rumour of something bad: a bombing campaign or human trafficking or arms smuggling or drug-pushing. According to Bodie, Cowley hadn't told the agents what information he was after. Ray scowled.

Bodie chucked Ray under the chin. "Don't look like that," he said lightly. "What if your face sticks that way, then what? I'll be the only one pulling the birds. How'll you like that, eh?"

Ray felt as if a goose were walking over his grave and prevaricated with all his might. "With that shiner? Nah, mate, they'll be running the other way. Don't worry about me."

Bodie tilted his head. Ray tried not to panic.

"Really how was Birmingham?"

 _Really it felt like missing an arm, a leg._ "Missed you, mate." His voice sounded strained.

Bodie's mouth stretched, pushed out; his eyes narrowed, pleased, and his real, teasing smile burst out like sun splitting the clouds. Ray's heart turned over.

"Did you?"

Ray had told himself to be brave, that the game was worth the candle, but his voice was gone with his breath and he couldn't ... could he?

Bodie's smile grew wider. He stood, leaning over the table. "You did, didn't you?"

Still mute, Ray stood and pressed his mouth on Bodie's, put his arms round the solid, real, present body. Bodie held him too. They opened their lips, their tongues touched and stroked, and Ray's bare chin met Bodie's neck while Ray's hands felt the warm planes and muscles as they tensed and moved. Ray groaned and gripped hard.

Bodie said, "Ray, come on, luv, Ray," and it took feeling the tug as Bodie started to shuffle toward the hallway before Ray realised that Bodie was taking him to bed. _Taking him to bed!_ He stopped. So did Bodie. Ray cupped the dear, bruised face and kissed lightly all over it.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he murmured, "God, yes." He took both Bodie's hands, kissed the one with the broken finger and pulled Bodie by the other, into the bedroom, to the bed to take off both their clothes and leave them in a passionate tangle, into the bed to sink every sense into Bodie--nuzzle his ears and neck and chest, feel his pectorals and his nipples and the trembling of his abdomen, hear his heartbeat and his quickened breath, see the sweat spring on his skin, and taste his cock as it slid so sweetly on his tongue.

The little clock jingled on the mantle. "Still want to drag me out to see skyrockets?" Ray spoke into Bodie's ear, then ran his tongue around the whorls and kissed the lobe.

"Nah, got plenty right here," and Bodie rolled them over and made the bed light up like all 1981's pyrotechnics.


End file.
